Norwegian Dreamworks 3

November 19th, 2014

A man playing a guitar under the aqueduct – analogy beginning¬† -warm raindrops dance on a surface of a dirty river – i can’t give you no money, can’t save you, can trace the ashes of burned villages and towns to the birth of them all, Gandhi or Jesus. Analogy enters the visions. All I can do is wait for the coach to call my number, somebody to pass me the ball (pass the goddamn ball!). We can’t win, but we can go out with a four point play. A! David Foster Wallace, infinitely jesting, still on the bookstore shelf. I can dream the end of night, the dawn, the whitening of the skies. Can map you a plan of all the city aqueducts, can’t stop the rain, though. Can’t cancel the funeral, or the music. Taking three wooden planes for reminiscence, you laughing in a beautiful black dress. A beggar of vagabonds, a penniless coin, pour me the glass of your cheapest wine. Pour me half, so I can walk back in straight line. Find me a bed, a mattress, something to lay my bones into. She’s, of Ethiopian genealogy, talking in a language I can’t understand, but the voice I do. I, nodding my head, skip another passerby. Philosophical axioms catching up on my life as I trip on a leg of infinite emptiness. Do I dream, don’t I? Do you?
Nature has made me so that I don’t fit in any life, and I’ve tried many. nature has made me so that I could be cut up and rearranged. I can’t do the same for you, I have no right to. Keep on plucking your guitar, king of ducks. Some day you’ll wake up and scare the crows off my slumbering body, so I can continue on working thing out, cause one can’t work them in – they weigh a hyperton. The line of reasoning getting lost, metaphorically speaking, into the tiny frequential breaths of a speciesless bird, that just, for the sake of unknown, decided to empty its bowels onto unsuspecting head of a bronze sculpture, bended downwards as if to feel the gravity of its fate. The eyes, that don’t belong to you, close shut and dare to dream for you. The rhythm slows down so you gain fat, dancing.
Is it your watch, monsieur? You know you have to stay here for another second, at least.

Texts | Comments

Comments are closed.

Search

Monthly Archives